Poem by Michael Drayton

To the Reader of These Sonnets

Into these Loves who but for Passion looks,
At this first sight here let him lay them by
And seek elsewhere, in turning other books,
Which better may his labor satisfy.
No far-fetch'd sigh shall ever wound my breast,
Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring,
Nor in Ah me's my whining sonnets drest;
A libertine, fantasticly I sing.
My verse is the true image of my mind,
Ever in motion, still desiring change,
And as thus to variety inclin'd,
So in all humours sportively I range.
My Muse is rightly of the English strain,
That cannot long one fashion entertain. 

1. Sonnet 37. Dear, why should You Command Me to My Rest
2. Sonnet 16. Mongst all the Creatures in this Spacious Round
3. Sonnet 46. Plain-path'd Experience
4. Sonnet 47. In Pride of Wit
5. Sonnet 23. Love, Banish'd Heav'n

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